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A Way In

By Trish Hopkinson From Issue No. 1

for Amiri Baraka

As involved and still

as looking inward. Loudly

closing all the shutters at once.

Evening: sarcasm blocks

my window view

of the garden. Scarcities

of light. The shadows. The

irregular flickers. Like old

flashbulbs on the red carpet, cold

and electric. There is no silence,

John Cage says … Just the tones

of nervous system operation

& blood circulation.

My throat wants to shout

out at this tangible reality.

Although, (standing upright in thin

atmosphere from shut windows; all

the answers falling to the floor,

till your feet are bruised & knee deep

in.) Although,

sunlight will edge between cracks

& in warm strips of faith, of truth.

There are glorious murals of lilies

on the wainscot

in the dollhouse. The dolls

sit still all day. In blue

dawn & morning dew.

Church bells, like the good

book in the nightstand, anchored in the drawer.

The lamb and the crucifix, a vision

with an ending.

I am satisfied. Pausing

in this moment, staying still,

waiting to pass this old age, the

mortal pain of body; sloughed off …

Like newborn field mice;

shivering in the nest,

until the unknowing

boot heel crushes their bones.

Use up the ugly

expanses, with full lungs

primed. Harmless lift

of human dreams. A prophet’s


Crumpling into the dirt, worms

writhing on lips. Wood

and hinges sealing the box.

Awakened. Convoluted

and looking inward. I evaporate

About Trish Hopkinson More From Issue No. 1